


Invocare

by magicalmuser



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Castiel, First Time, Historical Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalmuser/pseuds/magicalmuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel doesn’t know how to describe the feeling in his chest. It’s half longing, half plea for help. Almost like a prayer, he thinks, and the thought unsettles him.</p>
<p>What business does any human nowadays have praying to an Angel?</p>
<p>The fact that Castiel feels specially attuned to the feeling is unnerving, yet it does little to hinder him from following that feeling to the source: an unconscious man lying half buried in the desert sand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invocare

**Author's Note:**

> **invocation** : (noun) the summoning of a deity or the supernatural; Latin: _invocare_ , in- (upon), vocare (to call)

Castiel doesn’t know how to describe the feeling in his chest. It’s half longing, half plea for help. Almost like a prayer, he thinks, and the thought unsettles him. What business does any human nowadays have praying to an Angel? The fact that Castiel feels specially attuned to the feeling is unnerving, yet it does little to hinder him from following that feeling to the source.

The source being an unconscious man lying half buried in the desert sand, almost a night’s wagon journey from Castiel’s home.

The man looks like he’s been traveling for several days. Judging by the remains of his clothing he’s likely wandered from some battle encampment, perhaps lost his way. He is sunburned where he had taken off his shirt; clothes filthy with sand, sweat, and what looks suspiciously like dried blood. His face is mostly covered with a desert mask, but the area around his eyes and nose is bright red with sun exposure. Thick lashes frame closed eyes, and his lips are red and cracked from dehydration. His breathing is low. He looks close to death.

It’s a wonder he’s still alive.

The desert is no hospitable place, life struggling daily to survive, let alone flourish. The extremes of its scalding days and freezing nights are harsh. There is little game in the desert, and what little there is, is especially scarce in the areas where Castiel finds him. From the looks of the man, he’s had to discover these facts the hard way.

Castiel picks him up with ease, noting the dimensions of his body, where lean muscle has begun to give way to starvation, the body having used up its scant repertoire of fat. The man makes no protest, more limp body than anything, as Castiel settles him in the back of his wagon to carry him back to his makeshift home. Castiel doesn’t dare fly him home, it would be the fastest way, but something tells Castiel that there might be people looking for this man, and his wings would be a dead giveaway. Despite the fact that Castiel chose the inhospitable desert to make his home, he does not have a death wish.

He makes good time on the return journey, arriving a few hours before sundown the day after Castiel set off for his journey under the cover of darkness. Castiel positions the man near the well and tears the remnants of his clothing off as best he can, washing him with a wet cloth as he goes, the man unstirred from his unconsciousness by Castiel’s ministrations. Underneath the man’s clothes he finds a strap of clothing that has been used as a poor excuse for a bandage. It’s stuck to the shape of the wound, and from the amount of dried blood that stains whole of the bandage it requires Castiel to soak it thoroughly before he manages to peel most of it off. It reveals a wide gash that extends across the man’s ribs.

The cut doesn’t look deep; it does, however, look infected.

Castiel thinks that the warmth of the man’s body has less to do with the external heat of the day and more to the with the internal heat of a fever. He washes the wound, removing the dried blood and scabs with careful fingers; even though the wound is nearly scabbed over, the pain is great enough to rouse the man from unconsciousness, at least momentarily. The man’s eyes flutter before he opens them properly. Bright green eyes regard Castiel carefully before losing focus and closing once more.

“You’re badly injured, let me help you,” Castiel says, and he doubts that the man is lucid enough to make sense of the situation because he doesn’t open his eyes again.

Castiel works meticulously until the wound is free of blood and pus and is red and shiny like a fresh cut. He applies a layer of healing herbs to fight the fever while he mashes up a poultice. He knows that if he wanted to, he could use his powers and heal the man in an instant. But his wings give a nervous flutter at the thought.

Even the slightest use of his powers could be a flare for people still actively searching to destroy the remaining Angels once and for all. Castiel figures that his knowledge of healing herbs should be enough to bring the young warrior back to full health.

Whether he’ll be as ready to kill Castiel once he’s fully recovered will remain to be seen. Perhaps the warrior will have enough honor to spare Castiel’s life now that Castiel has saved his.

A life for a life, Castiel will take his chances.

Castiel moves him into the cool shade of his tent and gives him the space that is his bed. He manages to rouse him long enough to drip water into his mouth, coaxing him into swallowing the cool fluid to replenish all the fluids he has lost to the desert heat. While Castiel waits for the any sign that the man will wake he makes a broth infused with the healing herbs to fight the heat of infection and fever within. He feeds it to the man in a similar fashion and changes the leaves on his wound once he sees that they’ve dried.

For the rest of the day and well into the night, Castiel watches the man carefully for any sign that the infection has not extended farther than the immediate area of his wound, but the man is lucky. With proper hydration and care he’s healing quickly, and Castiel is relieved to find that the severity of his injury had more to do with the harshness of the desert than anything. It’s not long before a more normal color returns to the man’s skin, red sunburned skin giving way to a smattering of freckles so thick that it looks like someone took a brush and smeared the bridge of his nose with coffee, his skin absorbing it like parchment.

The man, Castiel admits, is handsome. More than that, he’s beautiful. Distinguished. High bred even, if the distinct curve of his nose and slope of his brow is anything to go by. It makes Castiel wonder what would drive someone who looks like royalty to don the burden of war like a common warrior. But he’s more than familiar with the rumors to know the truth hidden in them. He knows that the humans had continued to fight amongst themselves after the Angels had mostly gone, and that lately wars have sprung up between humans and demons. It’s not unlikely that even wellborn sons have had to take up arms to defend their lands.

.

On the second morning, three days after Castiel having found him, the man groans and gains enough consciousness that Castiel is able to give him water properly. He accepts it wordlessly, closing his eyes as he drinks and only opening them again when he is done. When the man sees Castiel’s wings, his eyes go wide, but he shakes his head as if to rid himself of a vision and is unconscious once more.

He wakes again later that night, mumbling incoherently.

Castiel can make out something that sounds like “Sammy” but not much else. He draws near, hoping to make sense of the man’s mumbles.

When he sees Castiel he swallows thickly and croaks out, “Water.”

“Here,” Castiel says, holding the jug of water to his lips. The man–and Castiel really wishes he had a name to put to the handsome stranger– drinks deeply, and falls back onto his pillow, satisfied. Even in the relative darkness of the tent–outside the moon and stars shine brightly– Castiel can see as a pink tongue pokes out of full lips to wet them.

“Where–” the words die in the man’s throat, scratchy.

“You’re safe,” Castiel replies. “Who is Sammy?”

The man shakes his head and tries to rise up, but Castiel keeps him down with a firm hand.

“You’re in no position to move, you are still hurt.”

Absently the man runs a hand across his ribs, flinching slightly when his hand meets wound.

“What is your name?”

The man eyes him warily, but seems to find Castiel trustworthy enough before he utters, “Dean.”

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, and the name feels right on his tongue after so long without a name to put to the man.

“Name?” Dean asks in return, and he appears to have resorted to single words.

It’s been a long time since Castiel has spoken with anyone, had an actual conversation, if this back and forth questioning and one-word answers can even be considered a proper conversation. But already the conversation has turned to dangerous waters. The exchange of names is basic etiquette for any interaction between two beings. This Dean, though he did not give his family name, seems honest enough in giving his. In any other situation, when relationships between Angels and man had been cordial, Angels would have been referred to simply as Angel and a simple name given them apart from their true Enochian name. To give an Angel’s true name is convocation in itself for it can be dangerous in the mouth of the wrong person. Yet for some reason Castiel thinks that this human who he has been watching over is someone he can trust.

“Castiel,” Castiel breathes out, the Enochian pronunciation slipping over his tongue with practiced ease.

Dean nods gratefully, even if his brow furrows a little at the oddity of the name, and Castiel can see the way his mouth moves silently, tracing each syllable before he speaks, and then it’s just one. “Cas.”

Castiel’s wings flare in surprise, his body reacting viscerally to hearing his name spoken in such a way. And it’s not even his full name, somehow Castiel feels that his name belongs in Dean’s mouth. That if Dean called Castiel would not hesitate to allow himself to be summoned. And perhaps that’s why he had found Dean in the first place, Dean had subconsciously been calling for Castiel, this connection so strong already that Dean hadn’t even needed to know of Castiel’s existence, let alone his name.

Dean is so startled by the sudden appearance of Castiel’s wings that he has a coughing fit that only serves to irritate his wound, and he drifts into pained unconsciousness soon after.

.

He doesn’t wake again until the next morning while Castiel is busy making breakfast.

“You’re an angel,” Dean says when Castiel brings him a bowl of mashed grains mixed with honey.

“I am aware,” Castiel replies, unperturbed. He has had his fair share of dealings with people who had never seen an Angel and their wings before.

“I–I thought I was hallucinating, the–“ Dean motions to Castiel’s wings with a lame movement of his hand, blush high in his cheeks.

“My wings?”

“Yeah, I mean–I thought you’d all gone _extinct_ ,” Dean says, brow furrowing slightly in confusion.

Castiel bristles at the word, and he can’t help the way he practically growls out his response, “Yes, you humans would think that. Our presence in this land is practically negligible, but it’s because we have chosen to leave, not because we have been driven to _extinction_.”

It’s mostly true, his admission is riddled with half-truths, but Castiel isn’t going to reveal the truth to this stranger, no matter this strange connection they seem to have. The wars had decimated Angel numbers, what with the combined forces of the humans and the demons battling them at all borders. Their alliances with humans were basically trashed when humans decided the quick payoff of treaties with demons was worth more than centuries of guarded peace.

After much deliberation among the Arches of each Angelic faction, the Angels had decided that they would leave and return to the realm of their forefathers, to lands across the seas that neither humans nor demons dared cross. Of course, there were those Angels like Castiel, who chose to remain behind in a twisted sense of duty. Their forefathers had been charged with the task of watching over humans, and Castiel intended to honor that promise until his dying breath.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–I just,” Dean says, and he seems embarrassed.

It softens Castiel to him, knowing that his ire is misdirected at Dean.

“Forgive me, it is a topic that is still–it is not a topic easy to discuss.”

Dean shakes his head, “Here I am insulting you when I should be offering you my deepest gratitude for saving my life. When I entered the desert, injured as I was, I had not the slightest hope that I would make it out alive. I thought that surely I was going to my death. Instead I find myself quite healed, and all thanks to you, an _Angel_.”

“You have heard the stories then,” Castiel says, sitting beside the bed. Now fully awake in the light of day and recovering well, Castiel can see that Dean is young, perhaps his early to mid-twenties, young enough that the tales of the wars between humans and Angels are something that was told to him by his father, but not so young that he escapes bearing the burden of the fallout. And by his eloquent manner of speaking, Castiel is quite certain that his previous assessment of his noble mien is closer to the truth than he realized.

Dean nods gravely, “I didn’t want to believe that you had all gone.”

That admission surprises Castiel. “You are quite singular in that hope.”

“Not as singular as you’d think. There are many of us still that believe Angels have been watching over us. That you will return, to save us. As I have now been saved.”

Castiel shakes his head, “I am sorry to say you will only be disappointed, now please eat your breakfast. You still have much to recover.”

.

Though Dean attempts to engage him in conversation about the Angels and their saving grace once more, Castiel avoids the topic. Eventually Dean gives up trying to convince Castiel altogether and instead entertains Castiel with anecdotes about Sammy during their childhood, who he reveals to be his younger brother, though younger in name for Dean says he is now quite grown up and almost as tall as Dean. In turn, Castiel shares a few tidbits of his own childhood, long though it has been since he was a fledgling himself. Dean has a bit of trouble believing Castiel’s age despite his appearing to be not much older, and he puts it down to weird Angelic facts.

They slip into an easy banter, comfortable in the way Castiel has never been with anyone else. He doesn’t know whether he should attribute it to Dean’s easy going demeanor, or to the strangely profound bond between them that only seems to get stronger with every moment they share. Castiel wonders what Dean would do if he knew what power he wielded over Castiel by the mere utterance of his name. Already Dean is fond of repeating Castiel’s name in far too friendly a manner, even if just to watch the way Castiel’s wings twitch.

And so passes a week, Dean recovering and with greater strength each day and Castiel attending to his wound. And though the tightness in his chest increases every time he looks at Dean, whether he is smiling, or laughing, or just sleeping, Castiel doesn’t think himself in any danger. In order for a man to truly take control of an Angel, he must allow himself to be claimed as much as he claims the Angel. Only then, when both parties have taken part of this union, can the bond, however strong already, be complete. Castiel doesn’t expect for Dean to linger longer than is necessary, he can sense Dean’s impatience with being bedridden, and in their moments of silence Dean is thoughtful, as if unfinished business elsewhere is his main focus. As such, Castiel does little to distance himself from Dean.

 .

“So you’re not a man?”

Castiel is not sure how this conversation began, but Dean is sitting up in bed, considering Castiel with a confused look on his face as he tries to make sense of what Castiel is telling him.

“I am a man in the traditional human sense of the word, by appearances as well if you don’t count my wings. But as an Angel I am not bound by the biological restrictions inherent to man.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I can bear as well as sire any offspring, should I have the inclination to breed.”

“Inclination to breed.”

“Yes.”

“So you can get pregnant?” Dean asks, eyes wide.

“If the situation arose, yes.”

“If?”

“I have never borne nor sired children,” Castiel replies, but he can feel the way that his cheeks burn hotter with every passing question.

“Yeah, okay, but sex isn’t all about _breeding_. You Angels do have sex for fun, right?”

Castiel doesn’t know if his face can feel any hotter. “I suppose–”

“You _suppose_? Cas, are you telling me you’ve never had sex then?” Dean says, and he seems bemused with the idea, if a little too interested in knowing what little there is to know about Castiel’s sexual conquests.

“That’s hardly the–” Castiel begins, but he’s cut off almost immediately by Dean.

“I don’t believe you, you looking the way you do.”

Castiel’s wings flare out in surprise at _that_ , and Dean must realize what he just said because he backtracks almost immediately.

“I mean, you know, if I were into–you’re not terrible to look at.”

“I should go prepare some more poultice, your bandages need changing soon, though you are mostly healed,” Castiel mutters quickly, not daring to look at Dean before he moves away from his bedside.

When he returns to clean Dean’s wound, hands moving deftly to remove Dean’s over shirt, Castiel finds himself overcome with a sudden embarrassment. Dean must notice his hesitation, because he pulls his shirt off on his own, and Castiel is left to watch helplessly as the smooth muscles of Dean’s torso move under his golden tanned skin.

Dean coughs, and that’s enough to get Castiel moving. He blocks out the idea that Dean finds him attractive as best he can, but it is difficult to ignore when he has his hands all over Dean. Especially when Castiel notices the way a flush has been making its way slowly down Dean’s chest.

“You almost done there, Cas?” Dean questions, voice strained, and Castiel finishes up quickly, not daring to look at Dean on his way out of the tent.

Their conversation for the remainder of the day is stilted, both of them quite aware of the strange bond that has grown between them, now accentuated by a mutual attraction, though unspoken on Castiel’s side.

That night, long after they have both retired to bed, when they should both be sound asleep, Castiel hears the unmistakable sounds and groans of Dean taking himself in hand and the muffled grunt that is Dean finding his release. Castiel tries to ignore his own throbbing need for release, but it’s not quite dawn when he leaves the tent, going as far from it as he can before, with a few quick strokes, he is coming all over his hand, Dean’s name on his lips.


End file.
